Survive
by Sorida
Summary: As a newspark wandering around a deserted battlefield, Bumblebee should not have survived for as long as he did. At least, not without assistance. Posted on Ao3. Warning: lowkey cannibalism.


A typical story starts in black or white. This one begins in grey.

Blunt digits scrape away debris as their owner crawls out of the crater it took shelter in. What is this place?

Curiously, the little one chirrups. Curiosity will later be his greatest asset and bring about his downfall, but sparklings don't care about the future. Sparklings care about the here and now, too young and underdeveloped to predict their futures. The same can be said for the nameless child who wanders the remains of a battlefield.

Of course, sparklings don't know what those are either. They don't know much of anything except who's alive, who's dead, and when they're hungry.

But even this little one, toddling and crawling across deactivated frames and smoldering pits, doesn't know the meaning of hungry.

He knows starving.

Blue optics flicker as he trips over a stray pipe, a soft chirp leaving his still growing vocal processors. He's been doing that a lot lately, falling. Stumbling. Maybe if those things on his back were smaller, this wouldn't happen as much. But it does and he adjusts as he always does. Though, something is different today. He can't see well. He feels cold, even when a fire burns to his right. He shakes.

He's sick. He needs help. But he does not know this.

All he knows is that something is very wrong and he feels tired. Exhausted.

Why did the Well spit him out just to shove him right back in?

"Bitty."

His helm whips up. Yes, that's his designation. Maybe. Probably. It's all he's heard in reference to himself. But he's learned by now not to respond right away. Last time he did, he wound up ten meters from where he wanted to be.

"Bitlet."

The voice comes again, insistent. Kind. An EM field brushes against his, tentative but warm. He latches onto it, starved for any form of comfort. He crawls closer.

There's a purple femme, injured and alone. She seems to be the last one alive, the last to go offline. A sparkling, even trained, could never dream of saving her. But this one tries. He understands enough of war and dead bots that he tries.

Energon leaks from her chassis, he can see it more that he's scrambling closer. Her optic is cracked, neck cables torn, wings bent beyond recognition. Those things on his back lower in sympathy, though the child doesn't understand why. He will later, when similar events happen to him. But not yet, that's not what a sparkling thinks of.

"Hello?" he calls out, planting himself before the femme. A shaky, clawed servo reaches for him and he doesn't move. There's nothing malicious about the movement or the foreign EM field. A digit runs over his helm and he leans into the touch. He loves it. Soft purrs emit from his tiny engine and the femme smiles.

"The Lost Generation," she whispers, in awe. The child doesn't know what that means, but maybe he will in time. "I never thought I'd see a Last Waver, and here we are. Primus has been kind."

Again, the sparkling doesn't understand these terms, but the femme is content. It feels like he's helping. That makes him happy. He offers a smile, reaching up to grasp one of those pointed digits with his own. The femme wheezes, what he assumes to be a laugh. What a strange laugh.

"What is your name, little one?" she asks. He notices her optics flicker, but concentrates too hard on the question to bring it up.

"…Bitty." He nods. Yes, that must be it. That's all anyone ever calls him. The femme wheezes again, shaking her helm with a smile.

"No, no, little one, that's another word for sparkling." Her expression falls. "You…have emerged recently." Optic ridges furrow together as her fascia shifts from confusion to pity. "You have no caretakers."

He tilts his helm. "Who?"

The way that servo grips him feels wrong. Something's changed. He doesn't understand it, but he will. He'll understand it all too well.

"Even in times of war, that is not right." Her optics trail across his frame, taking in the way his armor is layered over his chassis – over his spark. Those legs are built for prolonged running in root mode, the arms built to house an internal weapons system the sparkling doesn't even know it has. The helm, heavier than previous frames and ports completely hidden, meant to protect the processor internally and externally. He is the very definition of a warbuild and the fact that the Allspark did this on its own breaks her spark.

He was built to survive and by Primus' will, she will make it so.

But the sparkling doesn't know that. And even into adulthood, he will never fully understand what happened this day. It will become a blur as his processor develops, as memory files become corrupted by a force greater than his own.

But sacrifice is something he will always understand. He sees it in the femme's face as she steels her expression and, with the last of her strength, pushes him towards her neck cables.

The sparkling gives a surprised chirp, but doesn't protest. "Drink, little one." She guides his servo to a split energon line, a main line. "You will need this to survive. Let that be my gift to you. Do what you can to survive. You will be our future. You will give us hope. You will light our darkest hour and lead us to the days beyond."

Deep in his spark, he knows this is wrong. Everything in him rebels against it, but basic functioning says he needs energon. They are both going to die, alone and without assistance. There's a choice to be made.

"Don't leave me." His voice is so small, so hesitant. It makes the femme pause, but again, she pushes him closer.

"We never really leave, little one," she soothes, stroking those too big things on his back. "I, and my comrades, will always be with you. The Well makes it so."

He blinks, before asking, "What's your name?"

A huff. "Lyzack."

"It's nice to meet you, Lyzack." A pause. "I don't want to go."

"We all must go eventually, that is Primus's will." A digit drifts ever closer to that main line, the sharp edge playing with delicate tubing. "I will, however, bestow upon you one last gift."

They lock optics. She smiles, genuine and kind. He tilts his helm, unsure. Curious.

"You remind me of a young mech," she murmurs. Her voice is weaker, he notes. "A kind spark that wound up on the wrong side. Do not make his mistake or mine. Flee this planet and claim neutrality. This is war beyond us now."

A claw hooks into the energon line. His concentration shifts between her face and her digit, scared. Dreading what's to come.

"You must survive, for the sake of us all." She leans forward with a shriek of metal. Lip components meet his helm. As she pulls away, she smiles. At peace. "Be our future, Bumble, and someday, we will meet again."

 _Snap._

Energon sprays from the severed main line as the sparkling watches. There is nothing he can do, but it doesn't stop him from shaking the femme, begging her to get up as their lifeblood trickles to the ground. He pushes, screams, cries, but nothing brings that kind EM field back.

Soon enough, basic survival protocols online. A haze overcomes the young bot's processor as he lifts the main line to his intake and drinks. Ravenous, no different from the few animals that scavenge the battlefield, but he continues and remains alive. Surviving. Just like she'd asked.

When he wakes again cycles later, he doesn't know where he is or how he got there, but he's not with the femme. It's another battlefield, another land of carnage and despair. But he knows how to survive here. More importantly, he has a name.

Somehow, no longer being a faceless survivor makes siphoning bearable. But nobody talks to him again for a very long time.


End file.
